


À la carte

by flowerdeluce



Category: Independence Day (Movies)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Cooking, Established Relationship, Fandom Giftbox, Fluff, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-25 07:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: It’s Milton’s birthday and, for the first time, Brackish is cooking for him—breakfast, lunch, and dinner!While the cuisine might not be up to Milton’s usual standard, the company certainly is.





	À la carte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saturni_stellis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/gifts).

> Many many thanks to asuralucier for Ameri-picking and general loveliness!

Brackish didn’t cook. If Milton didn’t intervene, he’d eat those dreadful TV dinners and leave a breadcrumb trail of candy wrappers behind him wherever he went. When Milton felt brave enough to turn out Brackish’s lab coat pockets, he found similar evidence of his attempts at consuming enough calories to get through the day. (And crumbs. So many crumbs.) Brackish may have been a vegetarian, but that didn’t mean he’d been anywhere near a vegetable in the last decade.

Milton cooked because he found it satisfying. He liked knowing what he was putting into his body. At first, he didn’t want to impose on Brackish’s habits, but it didn’t take long to realize that Brackish didn’t mind his imposing in the slightest. He never turned down an invitation to dinner in Milton’s quarters. He never objected to Milton checking up on him at lunchtimes, ensuring he’d ingested something besides soda and chocolate.

When they started spending most of their evenings together, Milton cooked for two automatically. He even kept a box of Pop Tarts on top of the fridge for nights Brackish stayed over. He introduced Brackish to dishes he’d never heard of, that he liked so much he requested second helpings and asked if he could keep the leftovers for his lunch the next day.

None of it felt like extra work. If anything, it was a selfish endeavor. The responsibility of cooking for Brackish made Milton more enthused to expand his culinary expertise; the soldiers who collected library books on his behalf commented on the number of cookbooks he’d gone through recently. More importantly though, he had someone to share his formerly lonely mealtimes with, someone he couldn’t imagine allowing to go hungry, even if it was due to disorganization. That’s why Brackish’s comment took him by surprise.

“I feel guilty,” he said, scraping his spoon around his soup bowl, watching the noodles spiraling in their cloudy broth. “I’ve never cooked you anything.”

“You’ve never cooked _yourself_ anything,” Milton joked. “Besides, I like cooking for you.”

Flashing a pout, Brackish said, “I _do_ cook.”

“Toast doesn’t count.”

Brackish was quiet for a while. He slurped his soup and watched Milton salt his own. “Your birthday’s coming up, huh?”

Milton squinted. He rolled a suspicious ‘yeah…’ around his mouth. The smallest hint of a smile pulled at one corner of Brackish’s mouth, but he said nothing.

“Why?”

“No reason. Just interesting is all.”

*

On the morning of his birthday, and very early in the morning at that, Milton woke to a knock at his door. He staggered out of bed into his slippers and robe, almost glaring at his alarm clock that wasn’t due to go off for another two hours as if it was to blame for his rude awakening.

He opened the door to find Brackish smiling widely in the corridor, pajama-clad, hair tied into a messy bun that had fallen loose in several places. He’d rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and flecks of what looked like cake batter decorated his front.

“Brackish. It’s four-thirty in the morning.”

That didn’t seem to bother Brackish. “I know!” he said in an eager whisper. “I was too excited to wait. Turns out they don’t take long to make.”

Seizing Milton’s arm, he pulled him into the corridor, giving him just enough time to grab his door pass. Milton let him drag him, almost stepping out of his hastily donned slippers on the short journey.

Dare he ask?

“Uh, _what_ didn’t take long to make?” He was acutely aware of passing his colleagues’ rooms and tried to keep his voice down. They’d no doubt be asleep at this ungodly hour, and oh, how he envied them.

“Your birthday present, babe,” Brackish confirmed, shaking his head as though Milton was being slow. “The first one anyways.”

Brackish thrust him into his quarters. A lingering burning smell overpowered the scent of incense that usually gave Milton a headache on his rare visits. He followed him over to the open-plan kitchenette, wincing under the fluorescent, still waking up. Brackish had scraped the clutter on the single-occupant table they managed to share at Milton’s to one side, making room for a plated stack of what appeared to be pancakes. Each was uneven, visibly lumpy, and of varying shape and size. They slid into a pile as Milton looked at them.

“Happy birthday!” Brackish announced, hands on his hips.

“My first present?” Milton asked, trying to ignore the state of Brackish’s kitchen (like a bomb had gone off in a muffin factory.)

“I’m making all your meals today.” Brackish led Milton to the seat at the table’s one chair and pushed him into it. “This is breakfast. Pancakes, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“What do you want with them?”

With tired hands, Milton picked up the knife and fork, swapped them subtly—Brackish always laid the table for the left-handed diner—and smiled appreciatively despite being at least half, if not three-quarters, asleep. “What’ve you got?”

“Uh…” Stepping around a giant saucepan placed enigmatically in the middle of the kitchen floor, Brackish opened a cupboard and rifled through. “PB, maple syrup, and… Oh—” He slid a bottle of Hershey’s syrup from the back and turned it over in his hand. “My mom sent this when I was first assigned here. It’s probably off, right?” He looked at Milton for clarification, his smile sliding off his face when he saw his expression. “Yeah. So, uh, PB or maple syrup?”

“Peanut butter, please.” The healthier of the two.

It wasn’t worth mentioning that he wasn’t a fan of pancakes. It definitely wasn’t worth mentioning that the first one he cut into remained runny and raw in its center (while somehow managing to be burnt on one side.) Brackish watched him eat a forkful from the edge, nodding anxiously.

“Well, whatcha think?”

With his well-rehearsed physician’s poker face, Milton added another dollop of peanut butter to mask the overwhelming taste of baking soda and said, “They’re... yeah, they're good.”

Brackish’s smile would have made anything taste sweet.

“Will you be joining me?” Milton asked, hopeful. Brackish habitually stole his food, and this would be a most welcome occasion for theft.

“Nah. I can’t eat this early in the morning. It’s all for you, baby.”

By the time Milton finished the plate of ingredients that usually combined to make pancakes, he’d discovered that his lunch would be delivered to his desk and he’d be returning to Brackish’s quarters in the evening for dinner. He wasn’t allowed to lift a finger, unfortunately.

Around 5:00 AM, he fell asleep on Brackish’s sofa to the sound of him humming while washing up. When he awoke an hour later, a crick in his neck, Brackish had draped a blanket over him and left a tray on the coffee table. A battered-looking bag of sugar with a spoon sticking out the top stood between a jar of instant coffee and a mug with a faded peace symbol on its side. Milton didn’t take sugar, and he couldn’t stand instant coffee.

Today was going to be a long day.

*

The knock upon Milton’s office door didn’t sound like any of his staff’s. It was too persistent and fast and didn’t involve any stepping in and sorry-to-bother-you intrusions of nurses who didn’t have time to wait for an answer. Whoever was out there waited patiently.

“Come,” he called out, signing a medical release for one of the lab assistants to undergo a procedure in one of the better-equipped medical centers in Vegas. He closed the folder as Brackish stepped inside.

“I believe it’s the birthday boy’s lunchtime,” he said, lifting the cool box he was carrying. It looked like one of the containers they used to transport tissue samples between labs. Knowing Brackish, it probably was. “We’re having a picnic!”

“Where?”

“Here of course.”

“Of course,” Milton answered, hoping Brackish didn’t expect him to sit on the floor. He didn’t see a blanket anywhere on Brackish’s person, so with any luck he’d stay in his chair.

His concern was unfounded, however. Brackish dumped the box on Milton’s desk and shoved his folders aside before unpacking it. Out came bags of chips, candy bars, several boxes of cookies and two cans of Peppo that undoubtedly came from the lobby’s dusty and rarely re-stocked vending machine that contained items of questionable age—Peppo was Mr. Pibb these days.

“I thought you were supposed to have sandwiches on picnics?” Milton asked when Brackish signaled he was done unloading by perching on the edge of the desk and almost knocking the lamp off with his ass.

“They were all out at the canteen.”

“Ah.”

Wiping the Peppo cans with his sleeve, Brackish cracked back both ring-pulls. Milton wasn’t sure he could face more sugar, but he knew he couldn’t face seeing Brackish upset. He’d made an effort collecting the snacks and, for once, it was nice having privacy at lunchtime. Usually, if they ate at the same time, they’d sit in the canteen and maintain a strictly professional air. Here, they could be themselves. It was a lovely idea, even if the food wasn’t his first choice.

Brackish tore open a bag of Lays and started devouring them, prompting Milton to do the same. He hadn’t eaten junk food in a long while.

“I wasn’t sure what flavors you like,” Brackish said, eyeing the bag Milton selected. “So I got original.”

“Original’s fine.” Original meant plain, and plain was _wonderful_.

“If you could just” —Brackish clicked his greasy fingers— “and be there, where’d you wanna be having a picnic right now?”

A few picture-perfect spots came to mind. There were several quiet, grassy places he snuck away to at Cornell, an area spoiled with well-kept, regimented greenery. Thanks to befriending one of the groundskeepers, he’d discovered his love for gardening there too, a hobby he still enjoyed, even in a desert basin where nothing grew. He hadn’t time for picnics while studying, though maybe he’d just never been invited to one. This was, when he thought about it, his first as an adult.

“I moved around a lot,” Milton said, sizing up a chip that was too big to fit in his mouth. “But there was this one place I liked to escape to at Bethesda.” It was a tiny park within walking distance of the hospital that could barely be called a park at all. It was more a big lawn framed by trees, a desire path cut through the center and a bench in each corner. He’d spent many a lunch break reading on those benches, and he hadn’t thought about it in years.

“What was it like?” Brackish asked, moving on to a chocolate cookie.

Milton shook his head. “Boring, actually. I wasn’t happy there. At Bethesda I mean.”

Had he been happy anywhere? Work took him all over after he graduated. Military assignments never kept him in one place for long. At the time, he hadn’t thought he minded the traveling, the living-out-of-a-suitcase existence that came from not knowing where you’d be the next week. Now he’d settled, even looking back on it made him edgy.

It had been part of the appeal of this place. A mile-long contract that put down in writing the length of his assignment in years, months, and days. The promise and mystery of a field of pathology no other hospital or military base could offer. A medical wing that was his to run as he pleased. Somewhere to put down roots.

Then there was Brackish. They’d been dating for less than a year, but Milton knew nothing could separate them. Brackish completed parts of him he hadn’t known were lacking, opened his eyes to things he hadn’t realized he’d been blind to.

“I don’t think I’d want to be anywhere else,” Milton said, the words sinking in as he said them.

It was funny how a question like _where would you rather be?_—the kind he’d never ask himself—made him realize the answer was, in fact, nowhere.

“Really?” Brackish’s warm smile could’ve melted steel. “Aww, babe.”

He wasn’t used to Milton being soppy. Neither was Milton.

*

Brackish’s quarters were transformed. The formerly messy counters and flour-covered floor were spick and span, the kitchen table covered with a cloth that, on closer inspection, was a folded bed sheet. A rich purple _Primula Auricula_ stood potted in the table’s center: Milton’s gift for their one-month anniversary. Beside it, a tapered candle dripped white wax over the eggcup it stood in, giving out barely any light and losing the battle against the standing lamp. An REO Speedwagon record played in the corner.

“You’re early,” Brackish said, hurrying Milton over to the sofa. He turned the music down, then rushed over to check the pots bubbling away on the stove. He’d already put the meal back an hour.

“Should I come back later?” Milton asked, stopping himself from sitting on the sofa just in case.

“No, it’s fine. You might have to wait ten minutes … Five minutes. No, ten minutes. Probably.”

Milton tried to guess what was cooking by the aromas drifting over. Mingling within the scents was tomato; he was sure of that. Everything else was a mystery. But where there were tomatoes there were accompanying vegetables, possibly something starchy to soak them up. Tomatoes meant savory food. Actual food. His stomach grumbled.

“Can I do anything?”

“No!” Brackish said, as if it was the most ludicrous suggestion he’d ever heard. “It’s your birthday! You’re being waited on.”

Milton sank back into the sofa cushions and linked his fingers across his lap. “The waiter hasn’t taken my order.”

“He doesn’t need to. There’s only one thing on the menu.”

“And that is?”

“Shh! You’ll see.”

Brackish constantly checked and rechecked a recipe book he’d wedged open with a can of beans. He pulled little faces while he read and stirred the contents of the pans, mumbled to himself, counted on his fingers, squinted at the clock. It was kind of adorable to see what he looked like when trying to follow someone else’s rules.

While perusing the spines of Brackish’s records, Milton had to fight the urge to alphabetize them. He let his mind wander instead.

What would Brackish’s fridge look like these days, seeing as he rarely ate in his quarters? If it was anything like his quarters or his record collection—still calling to him in his periphery for order—it’d be messy. Or empty, if he didn’t order food with the weekly deliveries. That was a thought…

“Where’d you get the ingredients from?” Had Brackish thought that far ahead? Surely the canteen wouldn’t have given him much.

“Borrowed ‘em.”

“From who?”

“Lenel. Sarah. Ursula. Um... Mitchell. Whoever had stuff.”

Milton smiled, imagining Brackish rushing around the living floors, knocking on doors, begging for vegetables and spices, making up excuses as to why he needed them, making deals for how exactly he’d return their generosity. No wonder he was running late. In a way, the meal was a present from everyone who’d donated towards it. Though, Brackish had orchestrated the great gathering. It was his idea.

“Okay!” Brackish called out, turning off all the knobs on the cooker one after the other. “Take a seat, birthday boy.”

Hurrying to the table, Milton saw that Brackish must’ve begged an extra chair during his ingredient hunt, as two stood there, mismatched, not unlike the rest of the table setting. The placemats were odd. The salt and pepper pots were from different sets, the salt an earthy green ceramic, the pepper stainless steel. As Brackish placed a steaming bowl of what was unquestionably minestrone in front of him, Milton smiled up at him, glad that Brackish had never considered their differences a problem.

“This looks lovely,” Milton said, desperate to dive in.

As Brackish sat with his own bowlful, he frowned at how low the candle had gotten while he’d been cooking. “I hope it tastes good.”

Even if it didn’t, Milton was determined to eat it. It looked perfect: teeming with vegetables, a base that wasn’t too thin or too stodgy, a good pasta to vegetable ratio. It was everything Milton liked in a minestrone, visually at least. After tasting some, it was everything he liked in flavor, too.

“It’s delicious.”

Brackish smiled and blew on his first spoonful. “Really?” He tried it, eyebrows raising. “Huh! You’re right!”

The LP continued quietly while they ate, the low, flickering candle leaving streaked green afterimages in Milton’s vision whenever he looked at Brackish over its flame. He’d thought about wining and dining him on the rare occasions they left the facility. A swanky restaurant on the Vegas strip with all the trimmings: live music, glistening silverware, French waiters. It wouldn’t be a scratch on tonight’s calm, intimate setting where no airs or graces were required. And the food wouldn’t have as much heart.

Milton tipped his head toward the cookbook still ling open on the counter. “What’s the cookbook?”

“One my mom gave me before I left for Caltech. I never looked in it ‘til recently. I had to improvise some of the ingredients.”

Milton had wondered about the cauliflower.

“I’ll have to get you an apron.”

Momentarily alarmed, Brackish looked down at himself, checking his clothes. “Why?”

“So you’ll cook for me more often.”

Brackish laughed. “Do you really like it that much?”

Milton gestured to his bowl: it was nearly empty. “You’re a natural.”

Raising his chin proudly, Brackish said, “You had a good birthday then?”

Milton nodded. He really had, even if he’d almost overdosed on sugar by the afternoon. There was one thing that’d make it better, though, and after Brackish finished his soup, he couldn’t resist asking. It was his birthday after all.

Taking Brackish’s hand across the table, he rubbed his knuckles with his thumb. “Wanna come back to mine for dessert?”

Brackish’s face lit up. “Sure!”

Blowing out the candle—and ignoring the washing up—they hurried through the corridors to Milton’s room. It was late enough that they wouldn’t be noticed, and Milton didn’t care if they were.

As Milton locked his door behind him, Brackish looked towards the kitchen expectantly and asked, “What’re we having?”

Milton answered by pressing him up against the wall, sliding his hands into his hair, and kissing him.

“Oh,” Brackish said, flustered and giggly. “_That_ kind of dessert.”


End file.
